Crystal Dragon

by Sharon Lee

Thirty

  Solcintra Near Orbit

  THE BOY SAT THE board like he belonged there, which was a good thing, Cantra thought. Ought to be one of the two of 'em knew what he was doing.

  Granted, Pilot Y. Argast had checked them both out on the full board, neither stinting nor accepting less than perfect from the pilots who were going to be flying Jela's ship. And granted that they'd both passed muster. The boy, though, he sat his tests cool as Solcintra snow, showing confident clear through—and it weren't no bogus confident, either, not from a lad as easy to read as the for'ard screens.

  Herself, she'd given Argast as much confidence as he liked, and an edge of Rimmer attitude to go with, which might've been enough to help him miss the fact that she'd damn' near bobbled twice—or maybe not, though he was respectful enough not to mention it.

  "Captain Wellik sends that he's coming up, and requests a meeting with the pilots," he'd said, leaving the observer's chair with a grin so cocky he might've been a Rimmer himself.

  Cantra eyed him. "He say why?"

  Argast's grin got cockier. "Captain doesn't give me his secrets to hold," he said. "You're lucky he sent ahead."

  Though truth told, he hadn't sent that far ahead. The tower door had barely closed on Argast's heels, when it opened again and there was Wellik, trailing an honor guard, and carrying a case.

  "Permission to enter the tower, Captain?" he'd said, with no perceptible irony.

  Cantra sighed. "Looks to me like you're already in."

  "In fact," he agreed, "I am. We'll do this as quickly as possible, as none of us has time to waste..." He put the case up on the board's ledge, opened it and in short order produced about twenty-eight sets of ship keys, emergency keys, gun-bay keys, lock-up keys—plus, as she might've known there would be, forms to sign for each set, certifying that she'd received them.

  Forms signed and stowed, Wellik brought another handful of papers out of his case.

  "Captain, as you are no doubt aware," he said, brisk and straight-faced, "policy requires that any vessel decommissioned from military service must retire its name. Now, I've put down on the manifests here—" he rattled his fist full of paperwork—"that Salkithin is being decommissioned and turned over to an appropriate agency, which intends to put it into service as a luxury cruise vessel..."

  The boy sneezed—which saved her the trouble of doing it herself. Wellik looked up from his paper with a frown.

  "As per instructions received from M. Jela Granthor's Guard," he continued, forcefully. "My office has completed the appropriate paperwork, excepting the names and affiliations of the new owners and the name of the vessel. We have, to insure compliance, provided work crew and materials." He glanced up again, teasing a single sheet of print-out from the rest.

  "Before we proceed, Captain yos'Phelium, your co-pilot requested that you be given this information, since I encountered him first on the issue. He felt it was a good thing that the name of the vessel be demobilized, granting the sometimes quaint and even superstitious approach to life exhibited by the local population."

  Frowning, Cantra took the paper, gave it a quick read—and then another, slower.

  Salkithin—Jela's own sweet ship—had been named after a planet on which a force of less than twenty thousand soldiers had successfully held off an enemy attack until a trap could be sprung. Thing was, the planet's forces—and the planet—died with the enemy. Damn' if that didn't sound like a familiar situation.

  Salkithin. Soldiers found that kind of naming important, and for herself, she wouldn't have cared. The gentle citizens of Solcintra, though—that was another matter. The boy had the right of it. And, she thought, he did have the right of it—he'd caught the problem before it became a problem, just like a co-pilot ought to do.

  "I'm going to be meeting with Sergeant Ilneri," Wellik was saying, "and doing an inspection. I'll leave these with you—" He held the papers out to the boy, who received them with a slight bow. "Please fill in the name of your ship, sign the forms and have them ready for me when I'm done inspection."

  He turned, sealed up the case, took it in hand, and was gone, waving them an airy salute.

  Cantra glared at the blameless door. "Now, what I don't know about naming ships—" she began—and then stopped because the comm let go with its incoming message tone.

  Wellik's papers still in hand, Tor An crossed the tower—communications being on the co-pilot's side of the board—flipped a toggle—

  "Tcha!" he said, sounding something between put-out and impatient.

  "What now? The local priests want to bless the hull and shrive the pilots?"

  He turned from the board, a half-smile on his mouth.

  "Nothing quite so drastic. The dea'Gauss sends that he must bring us an amended contract for review and signature."

  "Amended?" She frowned. "Amended how?"

  He glanced back at his screen. "It would appear that the Service Families have ...reformulated themselves and are now the High Houses of Solcintra. The dea'Gauss believes that an addendum putting forth this lineage will—be in the pilot's interests, should there be a dispute regarding payment."

  "Which you know and I know and dea'Gauss knows there likely will be," Cantra pointed out. "Not to say that Nalli Olanek ain't as honorable as they come when dealing with one of her own. But I'm betting there ain't no rules saying she's got to treat straight with a pair of kenake pilots. Stands to reason she'll do her utmost to short us."

  The boy sighed and turned from the screen. "I believe you are correct, Pilot," he said seriously. "However, there is surely no harm in allowing the dea'Gauss to amend the contract as he suggests. It will be one more thing on our side of the trade table, when it comes time to sue for our fee."

  "Right you are. Tell him to fetch it on up, then." She waited while he sent the message on.

  "Now," she said, when he turned back to her, Wellik's papers in hand. "What will you be caring to name this fine vessel, Pilot Tor An?"

  Damn' if he didn't pale, the rich golden skin going to a sort of beige—and here she thought she'd been doing him the kind of honor a well-brought-up boy from a trade clan would cherish.

  "I?" he gasped. "What right have I to—surely it falls to the captain to name her ship!"

  "No hand at it," she said, laconic and Rim-wise. "And as to right—you're my co-pilot, and my heir. Says so in those papers dea'Gauss drew up between us and the Service Families. If I die on con, the ship goes to you."

  "The contract..." He took a breath, color returning to his face. "The contract must demonstrate a clear passage of responsibility, for the safety of ship and passengers. However, the contract describes necessity for this one flight which we are soon to undertake. We—we cannot know that we will work well together, long-term, or that we will wish to continue our association beyond contract's end..."

  "Assuming that there's anything at the end of the contract saving gray screens the pilots' last duty," she said, maybe a bit harsher than she needed to. "You saw those 'quations, Pilot. They shape up to a certain future, in your opinion?"

  He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "They are the equations we are given, and when the time comes, we will fly them. I depend on Scholar dea'Syl's genius—and the skill of the best damn' pilot Jela had ever known."

  And who was she, Cantra thought, suddenly tired, to snatch hope out of the boy's hands? He might even be right.

  "All right, then," she said, making her voice easy and light. She crossed over and took up a lean against the pilot's chair, producing a smile when he raised his head and looked at her. "Let's take this by the numbers, if you'll bear with me, Pilot."

  He moved his hand, fingers shaping the sign for go on.

  "Right. The way it scans to me is that you're my co-pilot, and you can handle this ship. Jela's tree likes you, the cat likes you, Scholar dea'Syl likes you, Rool Tiazan likes you—Deeps, I think even Wellik likes you! Certain-sure Jela liked you, or he wouldn't never have given you care of the scholar and sent you on ahea
d. All those upstanding folk liking you, trusting you—that weighs with me, Pilot. I can't think of anybody within reach who I'd rather stand as my heir and carry on with my ship."

  She paused, watching him as he stared around the tower, something like awe in his face. My ship—she could see him thinking it, he was so easy to read—and he shed a tithe of the sadness he'd been carrying with him since he'd realized his old Dejon was going to be left behind on the ground...

  "Now, before you decide," she said, when she'd judged he'd had time enough to feel the full wonder of someday being master of such a vessel—"before you decide, there's something else you need to know."

  His attention was on her that fast, purple eyes non-committal in a face that had gone trader-bland. "Captain."

  Almost Cantra grinned, which wasn't at all what she wanted to be doing at this point. Easy to read he might be, but Tor An yos'Galan was a pilot, and a trader-trained-and-raised. Inexperience, she reminded herself, wasn't anywhere near the same as foolhardy.

  "If you stand my heir, there's other things that'll fall to your care with this ship, those being—" She extended her hand, fist closed, and showed him her thumb—"Jela's tree, which he honored as a comrade and a brother-in-arms. He took my oath, that I'd keep it safe, and I'd expect you to take up that oath as your own."

  Tor An inclined his head.

  Cantra raised her first finger. "Second and last—Jela's heir will also come into your keeping, and I'll expect you to care and nurture it as you would a child of your own body."

  The boy blinked. "Jela's heir?" he repeated. Another blink. "You are pregnant with Jela's child?"

  "That's right." She said it as forthrightly as possible—and waited, not at all certain what to expect from—

  He took three steps toward her, and she could see the shine of tears in his eyes. She swallowed, her throat tight and her own eyes suddenly wet.

  "Captain, you are—you are not only calling heir, then. You are calling clan."

  That came from an odd trajectory. She hadn't thought of clan, being only Torvin by Garen's say-so. But a boy from an old and extended family of traders and ship-masters—aye, he'd think clan right enough, and most especially as he'd lost all that they'd been.

  And, really, she thought, what difference? Clan served her purpose as well as heir, if it meant protection for the tree and the child.

  The boy was looking—elsewhere, like he was seeing something or someone she couldn't. "Yes," he said softly, in that thinking-out-loud voice she'd already heard him use at the board. "Yes, this will be good. It will be good. There is strength in clan. And the contract—the contract will be properly then between clans, and less easy to ignore, come time to collect our fee." His eyes focused on her face again. "But our clan will need a name!"

  Cantra felt something unknot in her chest, like maybe there'd been cargo twine around her heart, and it had suddenly come loose. But—

  "Let's name the ship first, hey?" She said, keeping it light and easy. "And I'll tell you straight, Pilot, I don't know anything about starting up a clan—"

  He smiled at her.

  "Nor do I. However, we are fortunate in our acquaintance. The dea'Gauss is one who oversees contracts and alliances, and who understands the measuring of such things. I doubt he would refuse a request for his assistance in this matter."

  And there it was again, Cantra thought. Co-pilot taking co-pilot care. The boy was sound. He'd do.

  He'd have to do.

  "So, we'll ask dea'Gauss to do the pretty for us. Right. Now—ship name, Pilot? Didn't you never think of your own ship when you was a kid?"

  Amusement glimmered in those improbable eyes.

  "What, the son of a trading house and never dare dream of my own ship? I'd hardly have made pilot if I hadn't that much spark!"

  True enough. She gave him an encouraging smile and set herself to coaxing him. Pretty soon she had two names—one a pure kid super-duper-hero-pilot name that he'd been slightly embarrassed to admit to, and the other a solid, sober kind of a name for a ship, with the tang of optimism about it.

  "I like that," she said, meaning it. "And we'll hope it's true-named." She nodded at the paperwork still in his hand. "Fill it in, if you will, Pilot. Quick Passage."

  Thirty-One

  Quick Passage

  THE BOY WAS ON COMM when Cantra came into the tower from her latest visit to the passenger bays. She walked past the tree, lashed good and tight in its position; dropped into the pilot's chair and leaned her head back, watching him through half-closed eyes. He flicked a toggle and general audio came live.

  "We've got a clean reading on all automatic transponders and passive visuals." That was Solcintra Station—which was pushing its inspection a bit, in Cantra's opinion. "Quick Passage, home port Solcintra, owner Cantra yos'Phelium. Active visual check in progress—looks like you've still got a blue beacon where you should have a green at degree one-eighty..."

  The boy tipped his head, and tapped his left ear—a sign to her that he had another party on the line.

  "The crew boat suggests that your inspection is before-time, Solcintra Station," he said politely, which if it was Vachik at comm on the 'boat, took considerable liberty with what had most likely been said.

  There was a slight pause, then Station again, sounding to Cantra's ear just a thought apologetic.

  "Acknowledge that, Quick Passage. Will relay—merely an activity report."

  "Thank you, Station. Quick Passage out." He closed the connection, and paused with his hand over the second toggle, his nose wrinkled slightly while doubtless having his ear filled with the Deeps knew what ribald and outrageous nonsense, Vachik having taken it as a hobby to try and rattle the boy's reserve.

  "As to that, I couldn't say, Pilot," Tor An murmured, not noticeably rattled. "Quick Passage out." He snapped the toggle and sighed, pulling the bud out of his ear as he spun his chair to face her.

  "Vachik's amused by Station, is he?" she asked laconically. Tor An stretched, putting the seams of his handsome embroidered tunic at risk.

  "Pilot Vachik points out that Station oversteps," he said serenely. "Which it had, and now does not. How does the boarding go on?"

  "Not quite a riot. It's a rare wonder what having a couple brace o'nice X Strains monitoring the intakes will do for the general level of politeness."

  Nalli Olanek hadn't wanted to swallow the limit on baggage, claiming her folk would be reasonable—which they hadn't been, not by any measure known to ship-dwellers. So, there'd had to be a limit set, which the captain did, and then there had to be arguments from the Speaker and her seconds, from which young Tor An had excused himself, returning some few minutes bearing the message that Captain Wellik had approved the guards she'd requested, and they stood ready to take her orders.

  That had solved the immediate problem, without bloodshed—though she figured they'd bought future grief. Stipulating there was a future. And not to say, she thought fair-mindedly, that the boy's notion had been off-course, which it hadn't.

  It was turning out to be the case that Pilot Tor An had a good many useful notions in that pretty head of his.

  It had, for an instance, been his notion—thinking out loud in her direction, as was his habit—that since they didn't have full-time military staffing, maybe they didn't need the extra officer-training seat there in the middle of the tower... and that maybe that seat lock and mounting block would make a better lash-point for the tree than ever they'd be able to cobble in a corner with twine and tape.

  "Assuming, of course," he'd said to nothing and nobody in particular, "that the captain would prefer to have the tree ship in the tower, rather than in its own cargo-pod."

  That cargo-pod idea hadn't played well to the green crew at all, and it hadn't quite seemed right to her either. She'd gotten used to having the tree in her eye, and having it mumble its pictures at the back of her head. Apparently, the tree had gotten used to her, too, and used to being part of the tower crew.

  "
Sergeant Ilneri and Pilot Argast report that three of our proposed back-up pilots test well," Tor An said softly. "The fourth was found inadequate and returned to port."

  She nodded. "Saw Ilneri on the way back up and he gave me the news."

  He'd also insisted she take another tour of work-almost-complete, over which Jela's mates labored, as far as she could tell, non-stop. Kinda spooky, were Jela's mates, for as hard as they'd taken the news of his dying, it seemed to hearten them to know he'd last been seen trying to take someone's head off with that nasty flexible cutter of his... and everywhichone of them still talked like he was hanging over their shoulders, insisting on nothing less than perfect.

  "The dea'Gauss will be here shortly," Tor An said carefully, interrupting that line of thought. "Will you wish to dress for the ceremony?"